


summer in the city

by bluecarrot



Series: To Be Alive [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alcohol, Baltimore, Boys Kissing, M/M, Summer, Tags Are Hard, not as sad as usual, only medium-sad, someone please make Burr happy, tags scare me tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 19:45:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7401325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/bluecarrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein someone under stress literally collides with someone lookin' pretty.</p><p>a sequel to How Lucky We Are (it also stands alone too, so). -- set about a year later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	summer in the city

**Author's Note:**

> this is in DC, not NY, because I cannot get over the fact that my nation's capitol was built on a swamp, it's very funny .... buuuuuut i am actually describing the brave proud inner city of my hometown, Baltimore.
> 
> Should I mention there's homophobia? A bit? Off-screen? That happens.
> 
> There's a tiny Dar Williams reference in here. "Well, the light that stopped the night seemed like forgiveness to you ..."

 

Nothing like summer in the city. 

Only the wealthy white people celebrated the return of long hot days; they had ways to escape the heat, after all, with central air and barbecues and pool parties. The rest of the city lived together like canned sardines. Mid-May to late September they sat outside on porches and doorsteps, fanning themselves with newspapers and trying not to complain (everyone already _knew_ it was hot, what use talking). The heat was ever-present; there was no escape. The best thing to do was surrender and stop hoping. Still: tempers rose. Gunshots and sirens rang out more often. Anyone who could leave had already left.

Young Theo had already left, going to the beach with some (white) friends. Burr was glad she was there, equally glad he was not there, and miserable that they were not together. 

He would have been miserable anyway. The heat lasted from sunup to long past midnight, finally dropping away a little bit around two or three in the morning; no breezes blew through the city. The buildings were brick and wooden, cheaply constructed and with little in the way of insulation, and walls and concrete held onto heat long after daylight faded.

The Burrs did have air conditioning -- a few window units, which didn't work very well and dripped water on the floor. He spent hours chain-smoking on the little balcony (it was a terrible habit and he was definitely absolutely going to quit before Theo came home), fingers tapped on a sweating glass half-full of bourbon. He didn't usually finish the drink but having it nearby was a comfort. The possibility of oblivion.

Overtop the cluster of buildings rose the moon: the open center eye to a shimmering fairy-ring of light that meterologists said fortold rain -- in the summer rain only meant more humidity. And the sky was drawn shut with clouds, holding in even more heat. He could not find the stars.

He missed his daughter. He missed his wife. He even missed Hamilton, now and then, with a complicated ache that didn't do anything but leave him restless and irritable. He'd finally gotten used to how it felt to see Alex walking around -- Alex, focused and frazzled, hair in a messy ponytail, a line between his eyebrows that never seemed to leave -- to see him and not touch him. He had finally gotten over the desperate urge to change that expression to something softer, something more interesting.

He tried to poison that treacherous thread of longing with coffee and cigarettes and alcohol and failed. Heat called to heat, and the nights were sweltering. Some night it was all he could do not to take his phone in hand. Some nights he dialed half the number and just stared at it, not quite able to finish.

He knew Alex would come if he called.

 

At least it was cool at work.

It was easy enough, Burr thought, to see who was still paying down debt, living downtown in a shithole apartment (or, like the Burrs, in a shithole townhouse): they were the ones rubbing away the dark circles from beneath their eyes, unable to get a restful night of sleep in a close, sticky room; they came in late and left even later. They didn't cheer up talking about weekend getaway plans; they came in to work and put their head down against the desk and slept.

Burr also worked late. No reason to hurry home now Theo was away. At six-thirty-one he went out for a smoke break and at six-thirty-four he stubbed out the half-finished cigarette and left it on the sidewalk: it was too goddamned hot to be outside. He had already taken off as many clothes as decency allowed, he'd rolled up his sleeves to the elbow and unbuttoned his shirt to the collarbone and it didn't matter. He was sweaty and lightheaded and sick. _Damn_ this weather, damn this heat, damn whatever damned idiot thought it was a good idea to build a city on a swamp, and he damned himself too for thinking he should live here. What sort of place was this to raise a child?

He rubbed his hand over the back of his head, trying to relax.

When the elevator door opens he stepped off impatiently and walked directly into John Laurens.

They both jumped back.

Laurens looked -- unwell. His clothes hung loose and his face was tired and he actually apologized as he moved to the side, like he didn't even recognize Burr, much less remember they were mortal enemies.

He should let it go, but -- "Laurens? Are you ..."

Laurens sagged against the wall, leaning back his head and sighing, like even being asked was too much of a burden. "I'm fine."

"What is it?"

"I don't --" He rubbed his face. "Do you really care?"

Well, no. "Yeah." Kind of. "You look like shit."

"Thanks." He studied Burr. "It's nothing you can help me with."

Burr shouldn't ask. It wasn't his business and he didn't want to know.

He hesitated. He had to ask. He  _had_ to know. "Is it something with Hamilton?" (He didn't think it was, he hadn't heard rumors or even seen them talking and laughing together for -- When was the last time? Weeks ago.)

Laurens made a jerky facial movement like he was trying to smile, ending up looking even more wretchedly miserable. "No. Not Alex. Not anymore."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ... Um. I really am sorry. For whatever it is." 

They stared at each other. 

Fuck.

Burr said: "Are you leaving? I'm leaving. I'm getting a drink."

"You were going back to work."

"Not anymore."

 

They sat together at the bar. They did not toast anything. They did not even talk. 

On his third round Burr remembered that he actually liked drinking with Laurens. It was too bad they hated each other and therefore only went out when one or both of them was desperately unhappy and needed whatever company was close to hand; something about the younger man made him think they could be -- not friends, exactly, but something like friends.

Maybe. Possibly.

He drank.

Maybe it was the heart Laurens wore on his sleeve -- so unlike Burr's habitual reticence. Wasn't that just a different way of solving the same problem?

He drank.

Laurens was slouched over, staring at nothing, drumming his fingers on the bar. It was dreadfully annoying. 

His hair was grown in now, though he kept it neat around his head in a sort of carefully-tended halo. Probably it was some fashionable cut. Probably he spent way too much money to maintain it. Probably he thought the cost worthwhile; it did, after all, bring out the vibrancy of his eyes and smile and those damned freckles --

Burr tilted the drink left in his glass and looked at those freckles. "Are you ever going to tell me what's going on?"

"You don't care about my life."

"No. I don't. But you do."

"It's complicated."

"Everything is complicated. Just fucking talk already."

He looked at Burr -- finally -- and smiled. It was faint, but it was there. "Family stuff." He took another drink. "Um. Someone got mad at me and told them that I'm, that I ... well. It's not exactly the way I would have chosen to come out of the closet, you know?"

"I hope you ran _someone_ over with your car."

"I've thought of it. Do you happen to know any lawyers?"

"I'll take on the case. I'll convince the jury it was an accident. I'll make them believe you weren't even there that day. Who did it?"

Laurens shook his head. "Just a -- a friend. Former friend. It doesn't matter."

Oh no. Oh, _no."_ Tell me it wasn't Alexander."

"It wasn't Alexander," said Laurens. He took another swallow of whiskey.

"If he shows up on crutches come Monday, I'll know you're lying," said Burr, severe. 

Laurens laughed out loud. "Honestly, it's my fault. I should have told them years ago but my family is ... difficult. It's going to take a long while before this blows over. If it ever does. I just don't even know if it's worth it, you know? My father said -- "

He choked, stopped, shrugged, gestured, rubbed his eyes.

Burr politely looked away. "You don't have to talk with your family, if they hurt you. Or Alex."

Laurens shrugged: _Yes, but._

"Look. You're not my favorite person and it pains me to compliment you, so I'm only going to say this once: you are smart and hardworking and presumably other good things too. And you're one of the most solidly  _moral_ people I have ever met. People who think those good things don't count because you like men? Fuck them. Um, figuratively."

"Well. Thanks. Coming from you, that's ... that's quite a generous lie."

"I mean it."

Laurens looked up, started to speak, and shut his eyes instead. He had very long eyelashes. Had he always had long eyelashes? 

Burr finished his drink. 

"I need to go. Um. Home. Are you -- will you be aright here?"

"I'm fine," said unsteady Laurens, rising from the stool and clutching at the counter. "Not a problem."

"You're a godawful lightweight. You're not going to drive, are you? I'm not going to let you drive."

"I can walk."

"Where do you live?"

"Thirtieth and -- " He gestured vaguely.

"That's miles away. It's too damn hot to walk there. And if you wait around for the bus alone someone is going to mug you, because you look like a rich kid dressing up in his dad's suit. Just --" Oh god, what was he doing? "Just -- I'll -- ugh. You can stay over my place." 

"I am not having sex with you, Burr."

"Who the fuck asked you to?" snapped Burr, and dragged the unresisting Laurens to the bus stop.

 

Inside the house was not much cooler than outside, although all the curtains were drawn against the sun and he could hear the hum of the upstairs ac units valiantly struggling against the oppressive warmth (and still dripping water everywhere, no doubt).

Laurens, who really was a lightweight, fell asleep on the bus. He woke up passive and silly.

They went together upstairs and into the bedroom.

"Hold still," said Burr, and undressed the other man layer by layer. Jacket, shirt -- fine -- and then at the trousers he hesitated, unsure of what to do -- but there was a visible line of elastic waistband -- and the room really was warm -- so -- so --

 

Divested of clothes John Laurens lost the appearance of being eaten alive by his own garments, gaining solidity and presence and an unnameable  _something_ that Burr studiously ignored. He shifted the giggling Laurens ("Burr, you have my _pants!_ ") into the bed and hauled the small trashcan nearby just in case, and slowly undressed himself and crawled in bed and shut his eyes and fell asleep ... 

 

... and woke with the first light of dawn to the grinding, dragging noise of garbage trucks bustling through their rounds. For a minute he was terribly confused: here was a _man_ in his bed, facing away from him, only a dark head and broad, slouched shoulders visible above the sheets. _Alex?_ he thought vaguely, but no: the hair curled tight and soft and his skin was a few shades darker and -- were those freckles? And he didn't smell like Alex. He smelled like -- like cologne -- and whiskey -- it was familiar -- 

His heart beat hard and his mind felt tight inside his skull and he moved very carefully because he didn't want to wake up Laurens, he really really did not want to do that. He hadn't done anything ( _they_ hadn't done anything), but how could he possibly explain why he'd undressed him (why _had_ he done that) and why he slept with him, god, they had _slept together_ , it was only sleep but oh god _what was he doing with his life_ , he would never never drink again --

He was still staring. He didn't want to look away. Worse and worse. He should get up -- he really ought to -- but oh wasn't it a marvelously peaceful sleep, deep and simple and dreamless? Laurens was snoring a little -- he really wasn't awake -- Burr could just move back in place against his skin, he could just put his cheek against that smooth expanse of neck where a soft fine triangle of hair grew; he could lay here just a moment longer and not have to deny himself, for a moment, the elemental pleasures of touch and warmth and rest.

He did not move.

He closed his eyes ... 

 

... and several hours later he woke up again. Someone was staring at him.

He opened his eyes slightly and shut them again, pretending he hadn't opened them in the first place, but he wasn't fast enough.

Laurens said: "Burr?"

"Mmm."

"Why am I not wearing clothes?" His voice was strange and tight.

"You are wearing clothes. I am wearing clothes. We are both technically clothed."

"My clothes are on the floor."

Burr winced. "Not all of them."

"You took off my clothes." Laurens didn't seem angry, or upset. Nor did he seem pleased. He was still staring, though. That had to mean something.

"You were too out of it to do it yourself. Remember? And it was warm in here." It was still warm. Really warm. He felt overheated.

Laurens said: "You slept with me. I remember that much."

"It was just sleep."

"Burr, look at me. Tell me you didn't do anything."

"We'd both been drinking. It was hot. I undressed you and put you to bed. That is it."

"We didn't _do_ anything?"

"Nothing," said Burr. "Not anything. Not so much as a -- a flirtatious word."

Some brief expression passed over his face, all but unreadable. "Well. Good."

"Yes," said Burr. He rolled on his back and stared up at the ceiling. He couldn't take all those freckles and those damned long eyelashes and that carefully-blank face right now. "It is good. You wouldn't want to do anything you'd regret."

"Certainly not."

"Not when you've been drinking."

"... Yes."

"You should save all that for when you're stone cold sober." Burr swallowed and waited but Laurens didn't speak, he didn't make a goddamn sound, so -- "Are you there yet?"

Another long, horrible silence. Then: "I think so. Yes. Unless I'm hallucinating this conversation."

Burr rolled over unto his side again; he faced him, stared at him, but Laurens didn't move or speak or do anything really, except convert oxyen to carbon dioxide.

_Fuck this,_ thought Burr, and kissed him.

For one ghastly moment Laurens did not react at all: and then he kissed back.

 

  
Alexander, Burr thought a little while later; well, it was after impossible _not_ to draw comparisons. He remembered how their bodies purely responded to one another, instinctual and elemental communication between skin and skin -- and this time the memory brought only a trace of heat, only a thin thread of nostalgia, easily broken.

Laurens was not a replacement for Hamilton and Burr didn't want him to be -- but they were more  _enthusiastic_ than  _compatible_. They bumped noses trying to kiss, they could not agree on when to take power and when to abdicate, and there was some awkward confusion about legs. It didn't really matter. He was eagerness itself, not in the least bit shy (an intriguing trait), Burr was almost dizzy with whatever it was the young man was trying to do; he kept laughing aloud -- this was ridiculous and impossible, he couldn't _believe_ it, not really -- and Laurens kept scolding him, as if laughter were completely out of place in the bedroom.

When was the last time he'd laughed, during? Not with Alexander. Not any time then. They usually argued, or Alex chattered and Burr ignored it and Alex got annoyed and worked harder to make him pay attention, which inevitably backfired. Or the prostitutes he'd hired since his wife died -- No, no -- so. With Theodosia herself. But when? She had been so ill for so long, their time dwindled to nothing, a few furtive movements and her apologies, him saying it was fine, saying he didn't care, he didn't _need_ anything, he only wanted her, wanted her, wanted her to get better -- 

When had he laughed like this? _When?_ He couldn't remember. For a minute it seemed vital he remember -- and then Laurens did something surprisingly clever and Burr muffled a shout against his skin, breathing hard, sweating now; he pulled him off and pushed him down and rose above him, saying cruelly "You are not the smartest one in the room, my dear --"

 

Afterwards they curled up together. Burr was terribly hot and his good sheets were damp with sweat and worse and he did not care, he did not  _care_  --

 

Afterwards: 

"What now?"

Laurens had ordered (and paid for) pizza; they showered separately and turned on the news, keeping the volume down low. 

"Um," said Burr, intelligently.

"You don't want to date me."

"I didn't say that."

"Do you?"

Burr looked away. "I'm not really good with relationships."

"So I've noticed." There was no bitterness in his voice.

They ate in silence.

 

Finally: 

"What about Alex?"

"What about him?"

"Right."

 

At the door they kissed again, lingering a little.

"I'll see you around," said Laurens, searching his face.

"Wait. I ... " He hesitated.

"Aaron Burr, the bus is already ten minutes late and it's usually only thirteen minutes late so it _might_ be here very very soon. If you make me miss it with some long speech brought on by a post-coital haze --" 

"I don't have anything prepared. Just," he took a deep breath, "it was ... fun. Bizarre, actually. But I liked it. I liked you. Being here."

"You've got such a gift with words," said Laurens, laughing now; he looked almost happy. He leaned in for another kiss. 

Burr closed his eyes.

The screech  of a worn-out hydraulics system made them separate. 

" _Shit_. Burr -- I gotta go. But I'll call you." He took off running. 

"I never answer the phone!" Burr shouted down the street. Two women walking past looked up, startled, and the retreating figure of Laurens raised a hand in response.

 

So that was that.

Burr did the laundry and cleaned the dishes and texted his daughter _(how is it there? I miss you terribly.)_ and went out on the balcony; instead of smoking he found himself watching the people below as they drifted into groups and separated again, watching how the cars did the same thing and looked so different, watching how birds in mid-flight seemed to move effortlessly, because the force that supported them and fought against them was invisible. 

And Burr was earth-bound.

He went back inside with the cigarette pack in his hand, still unopened, and started on dinner.

**Author's Note:**

> i couldn't let Burr and Laurens be sad and alone.


End file.
